Ode to Lower Middle Class

The kitchen smells like garlic
From last night’s primavera, made from
Frozen brocc-o-li and pasta from the Reagan Era.

The cat is in the cradle
Or at least on window sill.  She’s the
Closest thing to children that won’t make this couple ill, with the

Fears of narrow credit
And apartment also slim.  Where’s the
Room in space or budget for a little her or him?

This time of year the sun is finally
Shining through the blinds, when we
Roll from bed to train to job to feed our fat behinds.

There’s many worse than us and ever
Do we thank the Lord, or what
Ever lib’ral deity, that at least we’re never bored.

But it pisses us right off that others
With the same degrees, are having
Homes and kids and cars and even just a little peace.

You’d think a life of urban iso-
lation would provide, the peace-est
Peace that ever was with no distractions, much to hide behind.

But there’s differences between
A life of peace, and anonymity.  One is
What you dream about, the other’s what you get from New York City.

We’ve earned our way away from rat-filled
Tenements and now, our place is
Clean and cheap and so far down the coast we don’t know how

To make it to Manhattan without
hiring a guide, or leaving
Home the night before.  Convenience and the budget do collide.

We’ve grown up middle class, and so
We know what we now miss.  So we
Grind away at jobs that provide hope less than they promise.

“It’s not forever” says our brother
And we hope he is not wrong, but the
Possibility exists that states like ours last far too long.

So I write and she will sing
And thus our struggle fills with meaning.

I will work and she will toil
Till our dreams find fertile soil.

There is no alternative
To hefting yoke of day job shit.

The day will come, do not despair,
Where we have peace and breath clean air.

Busted By Woody Allen

Running Dialogue